Backside Rodeo
by Kizzia
Summary: Sherlock "Shezza" Holmes is the hottest thing on a snowboard right now, widely tipped to take gold for Team GB at Sochi. And that's what Sherlock's focused on, perfecting his tricks, getting his runs spot on ... winning. Unfortunately for Sherlock, and for John, the media is more interested in their relationship, as is someone else. A Johnlock snowboarding AU - full summary inside
1. Chapter 1

**Challenge:** Sherlock Biennial Sports Challenge  
**Sport:** Snowboard Slopestyle  
**Pairings:** Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
**Rating:** Mature (but not explicit)  
**Warnings, kinks and contents: **male slash, sex but nothing graphic, blatant homophobia, LGBT rights, Principle 6 protest, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gratuitous descriptions of Sherlock snowboarding and Sherlock's snowboard fit body, and some mention of John's body too funnily enough.

**Full Summary: **On the slopestyle circuit, Sherlock "Shezza" Holmes is _the _hottest thing on a snowboard right now; he's just knocked Charly Agust Magnussen off the No 1 spot in the world tour rankings after back-to-back wins at the World Cup and the Winter X Games, has landed more triples in competition than any other boarder, and is widely tipped to take the Slopestyle gold for Team GB in Sochi. And that's what Sherlock cares about; perfecting his tricks, getting his runs spot on … winning.  
However the media are more interested in the ongoing feud between him and Charly, the antics of his army of fans (Shezza's Sugars), and the fact he's the only pro male snowboarder in an openly gay relationship - with John Watson, an ex-army combat medic who is now Sherlock's personal trainer as well as his lover. Unfortunately for Sherlock, and for John, it looks like the media might be right about what's really going to affect how Sherlock competes on the slopes of Rosa Khutor.

**Author's Note:**

First things first, I'm a wakeboarder, not a snowboarder - although I'm very tempted to switch disciplines after this - so I'm certain to have got terms and other things wrong because I'm more used to wakeboarding speak. I've done my best with the research but if there's anything in here that is seriously wrong with my descriptions of tricks, gear or snowboarding in general, please shout at me. I'll fix it to the best of my ability.

Secondly, as this a Snowboarding AU, both Sherlock and John have to be significantly younger than they are in the show for it to be believable. So - for those of you who, like me, like to know timings – as far as this goes, Sherlock was born in 1990 and John was born in 1983, making them 24 and 30, respectively, at the start of 2014. This does put Sherlock on the upper age bracket of the successful boarders on the slopes at the moment, but pretty much matches him to Billy Morgan - one of Team GB's slopestyle competitors in Sochi and my favourite British snowboarder - who has just had the best year of his career and was the first boarder to ever land a triple backside rodeo, thus allowing me vaguely legitimate use of the fic title, which I freely admit is one huge double entendre.

Thirdly, you can all thank **ladyprydian** (who not only came up with the title and beta'd this for me, but is one of the three wonderful Sherlock Biennial Sports Challenge mods, along with **azriona** and Hedgehogandotter) and addkye for the fact that this isn't just going to be one story. Their insights and enthusiasm for my initial idea seem to have created a veritable plethora of plot bunnies; far too many for one fic. Thus this AU is going to be a series - Shezza's Sick Slopestyle – and once this story is posted I shall start adding other fics as they get written. Most of them will be prequels i.e. Sherlock & John's first meeting and other interesting bits of their back-stories (which are, unsurprisingly, very different to show canon) and will include one-shots covering certain events in Sherlock's boarding career that are mentioned in this fic. I'll probably also share some of the scenes that are only alluded to in this fic because, although I want to keep the rating of this at mature rather than explicit, I know I'm not going to be able to resist filling in the gaps at some point.

And now, if you're still reading after the worlds longest author's note, on with the ficcery!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock bursts through the living room door of 221B, haphazardly shedding bags and clothes, and heads straight for the bathroom. John, a few paces behind thanks to taking a few seconds to hang his jacket in the hall, doesn't even think to complain, simply gathers the bits of discarded clothing that have landed on the floor and plonks them on the sofa. Sherlock has done exactly the same thing on returning from competition throughout all the time they've known each other. He'd be more bothered by a change to the routine than he is by the mess Sherlock's habit creates.

Setting his own bags neatly by his armchair he heads straight for the kettle as he hears the shower switch on. They've been travelling for sixteen hours solid, he only managed about four hours sleep on the plane and it's barely nine in the morning; he's going to need a lot of coffee if he's going to last the day. As he waits for the water to boil he sees the post from the thirteen days they've been away neatly stacked on the kitchen table and, looking blearily around at the spotless surfaces, realises that Mrs Hudson has been up and cleaned. She's supposed to be their landlady, not their housekeeper, but it seems old habits die hard and, having been Sherlock's nanny for the first thirteen years of his life, she just can't help herself.

_And I for one am eternally grateful_, John thinks as he takes a quick sip of his scalding coffee and then starts sorting the mail, _otherwise this place would be a complete disaster area and we might both have died from food poisoning years ago_.

A large padded envelope with Irene's distinctive handwriting catches his eye and he grins as he rips it open to reveal the pictures from Sherlock's winning runs in Stoneham and Aspen. The note attached confirms that these are copies for him and Sherlock to keep. The originals are already on Know What You Like's website and being used for promo spreads in Whitelines and Ski & Snowboard; capitalising on Sherlock finally ranking number one and all the hype ahead of Sochi. There are some stunning ones of him mid-trick – including his backside triple cork 1440 – the blood red of the latest Know What You Like gear and the black of his board really making him stand out against the snow and bright blue sky. However, as far as John is concerned, his favourite is Sherlock coasting to a halt in the finishing area at Aspen, fist raised in triumph and a genuine smile of unabashed joy on his face.

John doesn't just love it because it captures Sherlock's first reaction to the best run of his career, nor is it down to the fact that Sherlock's already yanked off his helmet and goggles so his curls are haloing his face and his eyes are visible. No, it's the smile that does it. It is Sherlock's smile, not one of the grins or smirks "Shezza" uses when he has to deal with press, fans, team mates or competitors. It's the same smile that's captured in the one photo – thanks to Mycroft – they have from their wedding last summer; the smile that makes John's heart swell with contentment and happiness every time he sees it.

'How do I look?'

John lifts his head as Sherlock, towelling his hair dry, walks into the kitchen clad in nothing but a pair of navy silk pyjama bottoms that hang low on his hips. His skin is lightly flushed from the heat of the shower and droplets of water still cover his chest and abs, glinting in the morning sun and beautifully accentuating his well defined musculature.

_Fuckable_, John thinks, regardless of the fact he's way too exhausted to do anything about the spike of lust that's just pulsed through him, _really bloody fuckable_.

'In the photos, John,' Sherlock says, tone a mix of indulgence and amusement despite John not having said a word. 'How do I look in the photos?'

'Good. They're excellent, as always. Molly really knows what she's doing with a camera.'

'It's a shame the same can't be said when it comes to men,' Sherlock says acerbically.

'Jim's just a bit …' John trails off, searching for a diplomatic way to describe the newest and currently most active member of Sherlock's fan club in the hopes that he can head off another one of Sherlock's rants about him. Unfortunately he's not quick enough.

'Creepy, obsessed, disturbed, manipulative.' Sherlock fires the words out fast, as if they leave a bad taste in his mouth. 'Take your pick, John. He's just using her to get close to me, to get the prestige that goes with being on speaking terms with _Shezza_. The sooner she realises he's gay, dumps him, and he loses his status within the "Sugars", the happier I will be.'

'He might be Bi,' John says, trying to be fair, more than aware that his possessive streak means he's predisposed to violent dislike of anyone who looks at Sherlock the way Jim does. 'And, unless there's something you've not told me, he hasn't propositioned you, or done anything more than some serious hero-worship. Besides, Molly loves him. There's got to be some good in there somewhere.'

'Wrong.' Sherlock abandons the wet towel on the worktop and steals John's coffee, wrinkling his nose at the lack of sugar. 'Molly loves the version of Jim he presents to her … just like she was in love with "Shezza" rather than me.'

'Molly knows exactly what you're like.'

'She does _now_, yes, but her initial infatuation proved she's predisposed to taking people at face value and assuming they are exactly as they seem. Jim's using that! Even you have to admit he's laying on the romance far too thick for it to be real.'

'He treats her like a princess.' John makes a successful grab for his coffee and offers Sherlock a correctly sweetened mug of his own. 'Yes it's a little over the top at times but some people _are_ overly dramatic when they're first in love. I seem to remember, back in 2010 just after we'd met, you speaking French all the time at the X games in Tignes, just because you knew how much I liked your accent.'

'Fine. Yes. Have it your way. But …'

'But nothing.' John interrupts, more harshly than he intended to. 'We can't _prove_ Jim is anything other than what everyone else thinks he is, plus we might just be jumping at shadows after what Charly said in December at the Dew Tour. And this is Molly's _life_ we're talking about interfering with, which is just not on. She's been a good friend to both of us and Jim makes her happy. Let's just leave it at that.'

Sherlock opens his mouth, presumably to continue the argument but when their eyes meet he closes it again, instead offering John a lopsided smile and opening his arms in obvious invitation. John goes willingly into the hug, letting the warmth of Sherlock's body seep into his muscles as he relaxes.

'You worry too much,' Sherlock murmurs into John's hair. 'I'm not going to mention our suspicions of Jim to Molly any more than I'm going to bring up Charly's continuing taunts with Lestrade again. They are both irksome idiots but that's _all_ they are. Nothing I can't ignore when I need to.'

John gives a "hmmm" in response, wishing he could believe Sherlock's right, that neither of the irritating bastards can do anything to affect how Sherlock competes. He doesn't say any more though. There's no point right now; he's exhausted and Sherlock's still on a high from the win – not a good combination for a discussion that would more than likely turn into an argument even if they were both calm and fresh from a good night's sleep – they'd both end up saying things they'd regret later. Instead he rests his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck, tightens his arms round Sherlock's waist and closes his eyes, revelling in the closeness and the quiet.

'Why don't you have a sleep now?' Sherlock says after a few minutes. 'You haven't scheduled me any training until tomorrow and the blog, along with everything else, can wait until this afternoon.'

'You need food.' John is slurring his words slightly as he forces his heavy eyelids open, tilting his head so he can just about see Sherlock's face. 'I'll get my laptop and check …'

'I'm on protein shakes for breakfast for the next week,' Sherlock interrupts, relaxing his hold on John and pushing him in the direction of the bedroom. 'I _am_ capable of remembering the diet I designed for myself and using a blender.'

John's tempted. Really tempted. If he's being honest he didn't sleep well at all whilst they were away and he doubts him taking a nap now will wreck his sleep patterns any more than he already has.

'You can make us both omelettes for lunch when you wake up,' Sherlock adds, pitching his voice to make it sound like the best incentive in the world.

'Alright, I'm going.' John starts down the hall, calling over his shoulder, 'Just for a couple of hours though.'

oOo

When John wakes the sun is low in the sky and a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table confirms it's almost four in the afternoon. He's about to jump out of bed and storm into the living room to shout at Sherlock for coming in and turning the alarm off before it had a chance to ring, but then he sees the note propped against the clock.

_You slept through five minutes of the alarm blaring and then me unpacking, so you clearly needed the sleep. I made more than I could eat for lunch. You can make me omelette for dinner - SH_

Sure enough, there is a plate with a chicken salad sandwich on it at the back of the table, along with a large glass of water and one of Mrs Hudson's biscuits. His laptop is next to them and when he scans the rest of the room he sees his bags, as well as Sherlock's, have been brought in, emptied and properly sorted. Smiling softly to himself at such a _Sherlock_ method of caring he wriggles back into a sitting position, stomach growling volubly as he opens the laptop and logs in, then grabs his food.

The first half of the sandwich is dispatched in four bites - washed down with a third of the water – in less time that it takes for him to get the emails open, but the rest is eaten at a more respectable rate. By the time only crumbs are left on the plate he's sorted Sherlock's emails, responded as "Shezza" to the most important tweets missed whilst they were flying and started to check the snowboarding sites for any buzz they might need to know about. Apart from some more garish promos for Charly's new clothing line nothing catches his eye.

The thought of Charly does, however, get him out of bed. He doesn't want to brood on the man who's already tried to ruin Sherlock's career – twice – for one single second more today, and lying about doing nothing isn't going to help. A hot shower does though, washing away all thoughts of the Norwegian twat and leaving John feeling more human than he has for days.

He's intending, as he pads barefoot through the kitchen, to interrupt whatever Sherlock is doing and repay his thoughtfulness by kissing him until neither of them can remember how to use their mouths for anything else. However when he reaches the entrance to the living room he changes his mind in an instant, leans against the door frame and just watches.

The room is transformed from this morning, the wall above the sofa now covered in papers with the layout of the slopestyle track at Sochi – hand drawn and annotated with exact measurements - in the centre, notes and equations spiralling out from it. This is then further augmented with post it notes and articles that seem to have either printed or ripped from boarding magazines, stuck and blu-taked at relevant points. Or at least relevant to Sherlock's thoughts; he long ago gave up trying to understand how Sherlock's brain works in relation to boarding and just accepts that it does, supremely well.

But it isn't the wall that really has him transfixed; it's Sherlock himself. Who, still only wearing his pyjama bottoms, is talking to himself - clutching a black sharpie in one hand, a pad of post-its in the other - and practically dancing round the room. He's treating the furniture as if it were an extension of the floor, springing, twirling and pirouetting his way over every inch of space as he works through whatever calculations for tricks he has running through his head. John manages to catch a few words of Sherlock's monologue – rodeo, cam, cork, switch – but the muttering is too low and too fast for him to pick out anything more coherent. He doesn't mind. Sherlock will tell him exactly what he's planned for each run when he's done. For now he's content just to watch the show.

It isn't a show that John hasn't watched many times before but still, he'll never tire of seeing it because this is Sherlock in his element - almost more so than when he's on the slopes - and the sheer energy and life radiating from the man he loves never fails to completely captivate him. A particularly impressive whirling transition - from chair-back to desk to floor - elicits an excited "Oh!" from Sherlock that precipitates him hurling himself back over to the planning wall, scribbling madly as he goes.

'That should do it,' he announces with satisfaction a few minutes later, sticking the last note next to the second set of jibs on the run and turning to face John. His mouth turns down at one corner in the odd approximation of a smile he often uses when he's feeling particularly clever and his eyes sparkle with elation. The expression, together with the faint flush over Sherlock's cheeks and the way his lips are slightly parted as he breathes just that bit faster than usual, push John's earlier intentions of kissing him senseless back into the forefront of John's mind, along with all the things that course of action could lead to.

'Didn't think you'd noticed me.' John says, voice low as he pushes away from the door and walks toward Sherlock. He makes sure to infuse every step with predatory intent, letting his tongue flicker out to wet his lips and everything he wants to do to Sherlock show in his eyes.

Sherlock doesn't respond, just swallows hard, pupils beginning to dilate as his gaze roams hungrily all over John.

'We didn't have time to celebrate your win in Aspen properly,' John murmurs as he reaches Sherlock, running both hands up his arms and into the curls at the nape of his neck. 'I think we need to rectify that.'

'Yes. Immediately,' Sherlock says somewhat breathily, tucking his hands inside the waistband of John's jogging bottoms, thumbs rubbing circles into the small of John's back.

'Your wish is my command,' John says, then pulls Sherlock down into a kiss.

Sherlock's lips part beneath his immediately and John cannot help but plunder Sherlock's mouth, turning the kiss rough and wet and gloriously filthy. Sherlock makes a small, needy little sound in the back of his throat, hands sliding down over John's arse and grabbing, pulling John flush against him.

John responds in kind, fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair as he curls his tongue round Sherlock's and sucks. The groan it elicits from Sherlock – one that shakes deliciously through them both - sends all of John's blood rushing south and has him pushing Sherlock backwards, tumbling them onto the sofa as desire overwhelms him.

'Too many clothes, Sherlock,' he growls as he breaks the kiss and scrabbles at the knot on the drawstring of Sherlock's pyjamas. 'Need you naked. Now. Then need you inside me.'

'Yes, I …'

Suddenly Sherlock is looking past John rather than at him, face darkening in annoyance as a refined voice from behind them says;

'Good afternoon, brother mine. I do hope I'm not interrupting.'

'Oh for Gods sake, Mycroft,' Sherlock spits as he shimmies out from under John and stalks away to the window, 'you've got eyes. Use them.'

'I did, unfortunately.' Distaste drips from every syllable as Mycroft continues, 'It was certainly not my intention to witness that sort of … display.'

'There's an easy answer to that,' John snaps, on his feet and standing squarely in front of Mycroft in an instant, uncaring that the lingering remnants of his arousal are probably still visible. 'Use the damn doorbell or at least knock! Don't just barge into our home uninvited.'

'My apologies, John,' Mycroft says, sounding anything but apologetic as he moves round him and over to the fireplace, 'but there are some … issues with Sherlock competing in Sochi that we must address.'

'_We_ must do nothing,' Sherlock says, plonking himself in his chair and drawing his knees up to his chin. 'There is no _we_ and there is nothing to address. I will be competing in Sochi, John will be at my side.'

He's glowering at Mycroft in a way that would have any normal person running for cover but Mycroft doesn't even appear to notice.

'If only it were that simple, Sherlock,' he says, as if to a recalcitrant child, 'but you cannot ignore the laws Russia has passed and the anti-gay sentiment you are likely to encounter.'

'You're being ridiculous, Mycroft. I'm going there to snowboard, not hold a gay pride march.'

'That may be so but it doesn't matter. You already represent everything that the anti-gay contingent within Russia's political sphere hate and, thanks to your recent successes and the way Know What You Like utilise their sponsorship of you, the mainstream British press have noticed you. You're now the unofficial figurehead of UK gay sports culture and therefore squarely on Russia's radar as a potential rallying point for protesters.'

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger for a brief moment.

'Add to that your fan base - which is not only incredibly vocal about your personal predilections as well as your prowess on the snow, but also made up of a significant number of teenagers – and you have an almost perfect storm, Sherlock. You _have_ to acknowledge that there is the very real possibility you could be arrested the minute you set foot on Russian soil and there would be little I could do to prevent it, despite my position.'

'Quick, John, get your laptop, write this down.' Sherlock looks up at John and flashes him a sharp edged grin. 'We must record this historic moment. Mycroft, for all his posturing, finally admits that he is not as all powerful as he would previously have had us believe. Maybe you should call one of the …' He pauses to make air quotes with his fingers. '… _mainstream British press_ and share it with the world.'

'_For goodness sake, Sherlock, this isn't a joke.'_

Mycroft, now standing drawn up to his full height and staring straight down at Sherlock, hasn't raised his voice at all. Nevertheless, his words carry an edge of steel that sends a shiver down John's spine. Sherlock stiffens in the chair, then snaps his head up and matches Mycroft's gaze, right down to the intensity of the stare.

'Neither is your constant belief that you can interfere in my life whenever you feel like it,' he says flatly.

'I don't recall you complaining last July.'

'Last July wasn't interference. John and I _asked_ for your assistance then. _This_ is completely different. This is you deciding my personal choices let you dictate how I handle my career. And that's not happening. So get out.'

Mycroft turns towards John, tilting his head slightly in an unspoken question. John, already shifted to a parade ground stance, stares back with the bland, blank expression he learnt, very early on in his army career, to use on smug superior officers who were, incorrectly, very certain of their own infallibility. Right now, as far as John is concerned, Mycroft has earned being lumped in with those idiotic men, regardless of the fact that he agrees with everything Mycroft's said about the risks Sherlock faces in Sochi. Hell, he's been trying to find the right moment to broach the topic with Sherlock for months, knowing that Sherlock was more than likely to dismiss it as irrelevant because, as far as he's concerned, his private life has no bearing on his career.

So why on earth, after twenty four years of being the man's brother, Mycroft thought turning up and giving Sherlock direct orders was going to do anything but make Sherlock dismiss the problem out of hand is beyond John. That he can then think, having made Sherlock practically vibrate with fury, that John will back him up is almost inconceivable. How can Mycroft – whom, judging by his sphere of influence, Sherlock had accurately described as _the_ British Government when John was first introduced to him - not understand John well enough to know he will never side with Mycroft against Sherlock? Ever.

'Fine.' A muscle in Mycroft's jaw twitches slightly as he reads John's expression and stance. 'Then I will take my leave.'

He walks stiffly to the door before turning back and looking straight at John. 'I remain, however, hopeful that at least one of you will consider this issue seriously and speak about it with Gregory and the delightful Ms Adler.'

'Goodbye, Mycroft.' John says pointedly, voice loud enough to mask some of Sherlock's muttered injunction for Mycroft to go and do something anatomically impossible to himself, despite agreeing wholeheartedly with Sherlock's suggestion.

Waiting for the sounds of Mycroft's exit to stop echoing up the stairs John remains looking toward the door, using the time to try and quash the fears Mycroft's words have brought flooding back to the surface. He's been terrified, ever since the new homophobic laws in Russia were passed despite global opposition, that his and Sherlock's refusal to hide what they mean to each other would put Sherlock in danger and jeopardise his chances of making Slopestyle Olympic history. All he's ever wanted, from the moment he met Sherlock, is to make the man happy and the thought that, just by being with him, he could do exactly the opposite makes him feel sick.

He forces himself to relax, to not make matters worse by speaking his mind; sharing his fears and begging Sherlock to start taking it seriously. He knows Sherlock too well to make such a mistake, knows that the topic is - for now - too associated with Mycroft in Sherlock's head for him to mention it without immediately being shot down in flames. He'll have to wait, make Sherlock forget that this little debacle ever happened, distract him. And for that, at least, he has more than enough skills in his arsenal.

When he hears Mycroft's Jaguar purr into life and pull away from the curb he turns back to Sherlock, opening his mouth as he does. Only Sherlock doesn't give him the chance to speak, snapping, 'Don't tell me he means well, John. I don't want to hear it.'

'I wasn't going to,' he says mildly, walking over to Sherlock and cupping the side of his face with one hand. He runs his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone as he speaks, gaze roving over Sherlock's face, then slowly down his torso. 'I wasn't going to mention the last five minutes at all. I don't even want to think about them …' His voice drops as he adds, '… because I have far more _interesting_ things on my mind.'

Sherlock leans into the touch, feet slipping off the seat of the chair. His left hand slides under John's t-shirt, sweeping up the flat plane of John's stomach. His right reaches for John's left and interweaves their fingers, drawing John closer.

'Yes, let's pretend the last ten minutes never happened.'

John leans down and swiftly kisses his mouth before standing up, pulling Sherlock with him.

'Alright then, gorgeous. Take me to bed.'

* * *

**And, because I apparently haven't said enough in the first author's note:**

I have to say here that I totally support the Principle 6 protest that Atheletes Ally and All Out have lead at Sochi (supported by American Apparel and their range of protest gear – check them out, even some Red Pants for Mondays!).

Discrimination is wrong, period. We are _all_ human, we are _all_ the same. Every single person on this planetshould be treated with respect and be able to live their life in the way they see fit (providing they are not harming others) without fear of persecution and reprisal. So every time legislation is passed that, implicitly or directly, discriminates against any group, it needs to be highlighted and fought against.

Which is partly why I wrote this story; it's another way for me – along with signing the petitions, buying a protest shirt, talking to everyone I can about it - to tell the world that I think what Russia (and Uganda, and Kansas and all the other places in this world that wish to persecute people simply for falling in love) has done is wrong and that they need to reconsider their stance and remove all traces of discrimination from their laws. I may not be able to go and physically protest, or make a direct difference, but at least I can do this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_Just a quick reminder that, because I've made both Sherlock and John approximately ten years younger in this fic than they are in the show, John is not a qualified doctor._

_There simply isn't the time for him to have fully qualified and then moved into the army proper (regardless of whether the army sponsored him through training or he joined after) and spent enough time in the job to fall in love with it so that being invalided out in time to meet Sherlock in Jan 2010 (when Sherlock was 20 and John 26) would have been hugely distressing. Instead I have decided he joined the army as a soldier (not an officer) when he turned eighteen, as a Combat Medical Technician within the RAMC. All his medical skills were therefore learned as part of his job and he'd have been a soldier for around eight years when he was shot. _

_This background would give John the skills with guns as well as injuries (CMT's are most often out on the front line and trained to act with the infantry if necessary - although only allowed to fire in self defence) and the voice of command (the moment someone is injured the CMT outranks everyone else until the casualty is treated and back on his feet/on the way back to base, even if the CMT is still only a Private) he has in the series; things I think are more important for John's characterisation than possession of the titles Captain and Doctor._

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock's first words to John on Wednesday morning are "Get your leathers on".

Since Sherlock issues the instruction whilst zipping himself into his own - flexing his chest and shoulder muscles to settle the tight jet black and blood red material over them – John doesn't bother to argue, just complies; taking the worlds quickest shower and practically inhaling the protein shake Sherlock shoves at him in lieu of breakfast. It doesn't occur to him why Sherlock's chosen the bike over train and cab until he's on the back of the Honda CBF600, arms wrapped round Sherlock's waist, and they're weaving through the tail end of the London rush hour. On the motorcycle there isn't any possibility of conversation on the hour long journey.

They're heading out to The Snow Centre in Hemel Hempstead for Sherlock's last slope session before they fly to Sochi. Most of Team GB are already out there but three of them - Sherlock, Phil Anderson and Sally Donovan - competed at the X Games in Aspen as well as the World Cup in Stoneham so they aren't due in Russia until tomorrow. John half wishes Anderson and Sally had already left. They are both old school boarders who don't like Sherlock's analytical style and feel "Shezza" is Sherlock's way of taking the piss out of them and their lifestyle. John can, if he's feeling particularly magnanimous, understand their animosity to a degree, but it still doesn't make him like them any better.

Still, there is a bonus to all three of them remaining in the UK, though. Greg - the head coach of the British Ski & Snowboarding's elite freestyle snowboard team – has also stayed and he is one of the few people in this world Sherlock actually listens to.

John is very glad of this because, in the thirty six hours since Mycroft came calling, Sherlock has been adeptly deflecting any and all of John's attempts to steer their conversations on Sochi toward Russia's anti-gay laws and what they might encounter when they arrive. In fact his deflections have been so good that John hasn't managed to say one word on the subject. His last hope is that Greg can be persuaded to talk to Sherlock about it in his stead.

John is still musing on just what he should say to Greg when they roar into the Centre's car park. Between his preoccupation and the flamboyant way Sherlock screeches the bike to a halt right in front of the entrance he doesn't notice the slight figure rooting in a handbag just to the left of the main door. Not until Sherlock cuts the engine and Sally straightens up.

'Hail the conquering hero,' she half sings, sour edge to the words as they swing themselves off the bike. 'Shame you didn't stick around for the closing party in Aspen, _Shezza_. It was full of your fans, so you could have made one of these big dramatic entrances you're so fond of. They were positively bereft at your absence.'

'As were you, apparently,' Sherlock drawls, handing his helmet to John so he can ruffle his curls back into place, 'given you felt the need to wait out here just to tell me that.'

'Don't flatter yourself,' she spits, eyes narrowing, 'I wasn't waiting for you. I've only just arrived.' Slinging her bag over her shoulder with more force than is necessary she turns on her heel and stalks inside.

'Lovely. It's going to be one of _those_ days,' John says, trying not to let his irritation sound in his voice as he locks the helmets inside the seat of the bike.

He's not irritated with Sherlock - hell, he often wants to sharpen his tongue on Sally so he doesn't expect Sherlock to resist having a dig at her when he gets the opportunity - but he really doesn't want to deal with the fall out of any team-based drama today. He just wants Sherlock to have a good session, in the hopes it might make him a little more amenable to whatever approach he persuades Greg to use on him.

'With any luck she'll ignore me for the rest of the day.' Sherlock starts toward the entrance. 'And maybe Anderson too. They're shagging again.'

'How … no, don't tell me.' John follows Sherlock inside, raising a hand in greeting to several members of staff. 'I'm not sure I want to know.'

'Deodorant,' Sherlock says regardless, 'She's wearing his.'

'Classy.' John wrinkles his nose at the thought. 'Want company while you gear up, or shall I go and get myself settled?'

'Go,' Sherlock says absently. He's already looking past John at the main slope, and John knows he's figuring out the state of the "snow" and deciding which of his tricks he wants to practice out there today.

'See you when you're done then,' John says, and heads to the café, not remotely bothered by the dismissal. He never goes onto the slope during coaching sessions. It's too easy to get in the way and he's found he sees more from up here. Plus there's the added benefit that the café is at least fifteen degrees warmer than the slope. That said, he's still quite glad he's snugly encased in his leathers. Pulling out his phone he fires a quick text to Greg whilst he waits to be served.

_Need to talk to you about Sochi. Can you fit me in? - JW_

Greg responds almost instantly.

_I'll find you while they're getting ready – GL_

John changes his order to two coffees, then settles himself at his favourite table, laptop open to "Shezza's" blog. He's only managed to add another couple of sentences to the draft of the post he's planning to put up tomorrow, before they leave to catch the plane, when Greg drops into the seat opposite and lunges at the coffee as if it's manna from heaven.

'Thirsty?' John grins at him, closing the laptop and sitting back in the chair.

'Knackered. I thought, after doing this for Vancouver, I'd be better prepared. It would all be so much easier if the Russians had even the fifth of the organisational skills of the Canadians. But they don't appear to have any at all. Frankly, what's going on over there is shit and I'm getting stuff dumped on me that absolutely isn't my remit.'

'Does the athlete's accommodation have heating and running water that's drinkable?'

'Yes, but that's about all it's got.'

'Then we'll be fine. Everything else is just fripperies.'

'Says the man who invaded Afghanistan. You might be happy roughing it, Captain Watson, but the rest of the squad will not.'

'_Corporal_, Greg. I was a corporal.' He tilts his head, giving Greg a mock severe look. 'Don't insult me by lumping me in with the Ruperts … and I wasn't the one invading; I just went along to patch up the lads who were.'

'True …' Greg gulps down his last mouthful of coffee and sets the cup back on the table with a satisfied sigh. 'So, what's up? And please don't tell me there's been a cock up having you classed as a member of the Team GB support staff!'

'Oh no, that was all sorted weeks ago. No, it's … well, it's that Sherlock and I aren't exactly going to be welcome in Sochi, being openly gay and all, and he doesn't seem to care. In fact he won't even admit there could be a problem at all. I was hoping you'd talk to him about it.'

Greg, who had been nodding in understanding, looks surprised at the request. 'Me? Why don't you do it?'

'I can't.' John meets Greg's eyes, mouth compressing into a thin line. 'I was waiting until Stoneham and Aspen were done to talk to him about it but then his brother turned up at the flat before I got the chance. Started trying to lay down the law about the problems an openly gay athlete might face. Sherlock dismissed it as ridiculous, because he's _"only going there to board"_. Then he told Mycroft to piss off and Mycroft looked to me for help. I didn't give it, for obvious reasons, but that doesn't matter. Now, because the subject is associated with Mycroft, Sherlock's avoiding it so thoroughly I can't find an opening to start a discussion naturally. And I know he'll just dismiss me out of hand if I push it.'

'Ah. Yeah. Not helpful.' Greg scrubs a hand over his face. 'Although I think Sherlock might have a point.'

'_What?_'

'I'm not dismissing your concerns, John,' Greg says hurriedly, 'In fact I was worried when I first realised that Russia's legal bigotry might affect Sherlock's competition but … Sherlock isn't going to start spouting off about gay rights in the middle of Sochi any more than I'm suddenly going to dress in drag and do the hula. He may antagonise every Russian he meets, either as Shezza or simply by being his usual delightful self but that's not going to break any laws. You two don't go in for public displays of affection, neither of you are involved in the Principle Six campaign and the fact that you're …' Greg glances around, continuing when he's certain no-one else is listening. '… actually married, not just shacked up together, isn't public knowledge. The Russian oligarchy might not approve of Sherlock but the bad press Russia would receive if they went for him without cause isn't worth it. They pick their battles and they don't target celebrities. I mean they didn't do anything about Tilda Swinton waving that rainbow flag about in front of the Kremlin and she was, if you interpret that law to the letter, actually breaking it.'

'Who did you talk to about this?' John asks, absolutely certain that the word _"oligarchy"_ isn't part of Greg's normal vocabulary.

'Helena,' he says, naming his ex-wife, who also happened to be one of Team GB's lawyers.

'Oh, right.' John shrugs, not sure what to say. Helena may have cheated on Greg with her Tai Chi instructor but professionally speaking she's impeccable. He doesn't doubt her opinion is correct but he still can't shelve the sensation there's still a problem.

'Look …' Greg leans forward, resting his hand on John's, which is clenched into a fist on the table top. 'I know you're worried about him, and I completely understand why, but I think you're in danger of creating a problem where there is none. You know how contrary he can be sometimes - if I speak to him now he might decide to start spouting off the moment he gets there just to prove me wrong.'

'He wouldn't …' John trails off as memories of Breckenridge unfold in his minds eye.

Greg nods as if John's finished the sentence and gives John's hand a brief squeeze. '_If _anything happens we'll deal with it, but until then, why borrow trouble?' He stands, clapping John briskly on the shoulder, and then strides off towards the slope.

John watches him go and shakes his head, trying to clear the panic within. _Is _he just borrowing trouble? Being an overprotective partner? Getting himself overwrought about nothing?

_No, I'm not,_ John thinks somewhat defiantly, yanking open his laptop with more vigour than is probably warranted. _I can understand why Greg thinks I'm making to much out of this but by the same token I could accuse him of dismissing my fears because it's just one more thing he doesn't have the time or inclination to deal with. Besides, Mycroft agrees with me and he's not given to flights of fancy._

The rapid fire clicks of a camera shutter at the next table pulls him out of his reverie and he looks up, expecting to one of the Centre's staff grabbing a few publicity pics.

What he's confronted with is Jim Moriarty, Shezza's Sugars baseball cap jammed on his head, pointing a Canon with an enormous zoom lens at the slope. A quick glance confirms Sherlock's just started his warm up run.

'Cut it out, Jim.' John bites down on a frustrated sigh and tries appealing to Jim's better nature. 'Please. He's here to practice, not be papped by a fan.'

Jim turns and favours John with a wide, guileless smile.

'Oh don't mind me, Johnny boy. Just helping my darling Molly out,' he says before resuming his frantic photographing.

John grits his teeth and counts to ten.

'If Molly wants photos of Sher-Shezza, she'd do far better taking them herself.'

'Obvious.' John can almost hear Jim rolling his eyes, even though he doesn't stop clicking away. 'But she's in Sochi already. Didn't you know? The BSS have asked her to compile a photo diary of the ski and snowboard squad. I mean, who else _would_ they ask. She's the best sports photographer out there. I'm just being a dutiful boyfriend and helping her out. I know _you_ understand … you do exactly the same thing for Shez.'

'Right.' John bites off the rest of the words fighting to get out of his mouth. The idea that Jim thinks they are even remotely alike makes him feel slightly soiled and in need of dousing in Dettol or TCP.

'I'm even going to be official,' Jim continues, lowering the camera for a moment and looking back at John, eyes glinting with an emotion John can't name. 'Her assistant Toby bailed on her at the last minute and I was already going out there to help Janine co-ordinate the Sugars, so it made complete sense.'

When John doesn't say anything he adds, 'I'll even have a media pass. It's going to be _so_ sick!'

'Great,' John grits out, looking back down at his screen. He knows his face is perfectly blank but he doubts he can keep the anger and worry out of his eyes.

'I know. Totally rad. I mean, I'll get to spend more time with Molly and I'll get to watch Shez up close … plus I'll be right in the thick of all the action off the slopes.'

John doesn't react to what he thinks is an obvious attempt to bate him into further conversation. Instead he gives a vague hum in response and keeps his eyes firmly on the screen as he starts to type. Well, hit the keys with his fingers. He's not even managing to make words, let alone sentences.

After a few seconds the whirring of the camera resumes and he releases a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, lifting his head slightly and refocusing his attention to Sherlock and his practice; something worthy of his time and attention. Shortly after, Jim moves to the other side of the café, presumable for a better angle, and doesn't attempt to engage John in conversation again.

Watching Sherlock is soothing. He's all effortless grace and smooth lines as he carves and jibs and jumps, no hint of the effort he's expending in any of his moves. John lets himself get lost in the rhythm of the runs, concentrating on cataloguing which muscle groups Sherlock's using most and mentally planning a gentle weights session for late afternoon to balance it out.

As time ticks by it becomes abundantly clear that they're all having a good session. He's had to stifle his own whoops of enthusiasm when Sherlock's aced some of his more difficult tricks and Greg's smile is almost bigger than Sherlock's. Even Anderson and Sally look happy, despite Sherlock outperforming them by a mile. When they finally leave the slope Sherlock comes straight up to the café, still in full gear and carrying his board.

'Well?' he demands.

'You were pretty consistent hitting the sweet spot on your landings. And I like the switch to the indy grab on the Cab ten eighty.'

Out of the corner of his eye John can see Jim moving towards them and he's about to warn Sherlock when a cry of "Mr Holmes!" splits the air.

'Archie,' Sherlock says warmly as he turns, shoving his board at John as a small body barrels into him. 'How are you?'

'I'm good. Brilliant, actually. Look what I got with my Christmas money!' Archie releases Sherlock to step back and wave his arms at himself. He's kitted out from head to foot in the latest kid's version of Sherlock's gear.

'You've gone and got yourself a clone,' John murmurs under his breath as Sherlock motions for Archie to turn round so he has a proper view. Then he drops into a crouch so he's more at Archie's height.

'Wrist guards too?' Sherlock asks, ignoring John completely.

'Yeah.' Archie holds out his hands and Sherlock instinctively checks they're correctly tightened. 'And a new helmet. Coach says I can try a frontside rodeo this time.'

'Excellent, and …'

'Archie! What have I told you about running off?' Archie's mother scolds as she rushes over, helmet in hand and board in a bag over one shoulder. 'I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes, I thought he was right beside me.'

'It's fine, Ms Miller,' Sherlock says, neither standing nor looking away from Archie, who's scowling up at his Mum every bit as ferociously as Sherlock sometimes scowls at Mycroft.

'It really is,' John says, nodding in greeting and watching Ms Miller – he still hasn't found out her first name, due to how overawed she seems to be by Sherlock's celebrity status – relax a little. 'We're always happy to see Archie. He does you credit.'

He means it and knows Sherlock feels the same. They've both had a soft spot for Archie and his indomitable spirit since the first time they met him.

'He's doing so much better, Mr Watson,' she says to John as Archie starts firing questions at Sherlock about Sochi. 'At school he's joining in, talking to the other children, answering his teacher. At home it … it's like having my son back. I …' She rests her hand on John's arm, drawing them away from Sherlock and Archie. 'I know Mr Holmes won't let me finish if I try and say this to him, but I want you to know just how much I appreciate him taking an interest. I was at the end of my tether and I can't tell you how grateful I am that he saw what he did, when he did, and said something.'

John pats her hand and smiles. 'Well, Sherlock's never been backward at coming forward when it comes to his deductions.'

'He's a good man,' she says, looking over to where Archie is now standing as if he's on his board and Sherlock is gently positioning his shoulders and arms, helping him with his stance.

'Yes,' John says, not even bothering to try and school the besotted look off his face. 'He is. I'm very lucky.'

'I think that goes both ways … Oh goodness, look at the time. Archie! You'll be late for practice if you don't hurry.'

'But Mr Holmes is helping me, Mum!' Archie starts to argue but Sherlock interrupts.

'Your mother is right, Archie. Practice comes first.'

'Yes, Mr Holmes. And if I keep on practicing, I'll be just like you.'

'You don't need to be anyone but yourself,' Sherlock says, somewhat abruptly. 'Don't ever forget that.'

'I won't, Mr Holmes.' Archie says, very seriously. Then he flings himself at Sherlock again, surprising an "oof" out of him. 'That's for luck,' Archie explains when he finally lets go, 'for the Olympics.'

'Thank you, Archie.' Sherlock says gravely, smile tugging the corners of his mouth. 'I'm sure it will make all the difference.

'Goodbye, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson,' Ms Miller calls over her shoulder, rather agitatedly herding Archie away. 'Say thank you, Archie.'

'Thank you!'

'Our pleasure,' John shouts back, watching them go and join the group of children and adults congregating by the changing room doors. 'Do you reckon he'll be giving you a run for your money in a few years?' he asks, at a more normal volume.

'If that's what he wants, then yes. He's got talent. He also appears to be able to make Jim disappear, which is even more impressive as far as I'm concerned.'

John looks round, startled. Sure enough, there's now no sign of the irritating Irishman. 'I didn't even realise you'd seen him.'

'Please, John, I have eyes. That baseball cap he appears to have glued to his head is so bright it's unpleasant.'

'True.' John thinks unpleasant is too mild a term for the rainbow striped monstrosity that has a silhouette of Sherlock mid jump on the peak. 'But I don't want to think about Jim, or Sugar merchandise, right now.'

'Come and talk to me whilst I change, then.' Sherlock's already walking away. 'I'm sure there'll be something to distract you.'

John stifles a snort of laughter and, quickly shoving his laptop and phone into this rucksack, jogs to catch up.

Whilst Sherlock in varying states of undress is always distracting, it's their journey home that really helps John put his worries to the back of his mind. First they stop for lunch at a pub a few miles from the Centre – one which is happy to cater for Sherlock's exacting culinary requirements. Sherlock keeps up a sotto voice commentary of the other patron's lives and habits thorough out their meal, until John's sides are aching with suppressed giggles. Afterwards Sherlock relinquishes the bike keys to John and tells him to take the long way home. By the time they arrive back at Baker Street and return the bike to its shed John is feeling relaxed, calm, and has almost managed to convince himself that Greg is right and Mycroft's just being an overprotective older brother.

'Hello John.' Mrs Hudson appears at the back door, apron on and tea towel in one hand. 'Hello, Sherlock dear. Did you have a good practice?'

'Not bad, Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock bounds up the steps and envelops her in a hug. 'I think it was one of my better days, don't you, John?'

'Stop fishing for compliments.' John closes the final padlock and throws the keys to Sherlock, who plucks them out of the air one-handed. 'You know you killed it out there today.'

Mrs Hudson opens her mouth but whatever she was going to say is lost to the shrill ringing of the doorbell.

'That'll be Irene,' Sherlock says and slips past Mrs Hudson into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John doesn't follow Sherlock immediately. He and Irene haven't always seen eye-to-eye and whilst their relationship isn't strained it's … well, prickly is as good a descriptor as any. Most of the time she has Sherlock's best interests at heart and has always been supportive of their relationship and all the decisions they've made in respect of it, but he knows she's driven by the bottom line - by the profits Sherlock can generate for her - so he's never completely trusted her and she's shrewd enough to know it. It's also probably why Sherlock didn't see fit to warn him she was coming. That or he simply forgot.

Either way, he takes a few moments to quash the spike of annoyance that she's invaded their perfect afternoon and to try and return to the sense of calm he'd been revelling in only minutes before. Then, after assuring Mrs Hudson that she doesn't need to bring any tea up, he heads upstairs.

'Ah, there you are, John.' Irene swoops over the moment John walks into the living room, wafting air kisses and Channel No 5 in his general direction before gesturing to a box on his chair. 'Now strip and try these on.'

'Lovely to see you too, Irene,' John says, stripping his gloves off but making no further moves to obey, despite Sherlock already being down to his boxers and sorting critically through the contents of his own, much larger box.

This sort of thing is a perfectly normal occurrence for Sherlock, but then it should be; he's the one Know What You Like sponsor, he's Irene's poster boy, the find who landed her a seat on the board and pretty much carte blanche to run the show. He's the star. John's not officially on their books, never mind a legitimate recipient of the same sort of treatment. Oh, Irene's given John clothes before. The odd – sometimes extremely odd – t-shirt here, a hoodie or two there, but not what looks like a complete overhaul of his wardrobe.

'John. Clothes,' she says, clicking her beautifully manicured fingers at him before looking up and catching his expression. 'And don't be obtuse. I know you'll not be leaving his side much whilst you're in Sochi and with the Olympic rules on branding limiting my ability to get our kit noticed in the competition proper, I've got to get a bit creative with getting exposure for the spring lines ... Besides, you're a completely different physical type to Sherlock and showing you both look good in KWYL is an excellent marketing opportunity.'

John tips his head in silent appreciation of her sharp business sense and starts undressing. Irene, like Sherlock, has little patience for repeating herself and he'd rather she didn't sharpen her tongue on him.

'Nothing to do with CAM Wear then?' he asks as he unzips and unbuttons.

Irene favours him with a look that leaves him in no doubt exactly what she thinks of asking obvious questions. 'Of course it is. Apparently it doesn't matter that those clothes are so badly made it would take a miracle to make them look good on anyone, they're still flying off the shelves. And then there's that tag line.' She shudders delicately. 'He needs to sack whoever came up with that. Mind you if it was one of the staff he stole from me when he broke contract then he's done me a favour.'

'I should imagine it was his own,' Sherlock drawls, sounding supremely uninterested. 'Wouldn't you say, John?'

John blinks in surprise for a moment, not having realised Sherlock had even seen the ads, then shakes his head in annoyance at himself; Sherlock sees everything pertinent, at least when it comes to the world of snowboarding - of course he's seen the garish adverts. 'Yeah, definitely Charly, because nothing says creepy bastard like advertising your kit using _CAM Wear: Because you never know who's watching_.'

Irene laughs and Sherlock snorts, his mouth curling back into a smile. Wanting to keep it that way, and keep Charly well and truly out of the rest of the conversation, John racks his brains for another avenue of conversation and his thoughts alight on the pile of red, white, and blue stripped kit that arrived yesterday.

'So how does this fit with the Team GB gear?' he asks as he shimmies out of his leather motorcycle trousers. 'Aren't we supposed to be wearing that most of the time?'

'I had a little word with a few people on the committee.' Her lacquered smile curls from friendly to smug. 'Reminded them of several … little favours they owed me.'

'Blackmail,' Sherlock says, sounding mildly amused as he settles a pair of baggy jeans on his hips with exaggerated movements. 'Nice.'

'I think you'll find I was merely _very _persuasive,' Irene says, moving back over to Sherlock as he starts rummaging in the box again. 'Now whilst I'm always happy to appreciate your deliciously toned torso, perhaps you could stop creasing the t-shirts up and just put one of them on?'

Sherlock shoots her an incredibly Shezza-like smirk - one that makes John feel uncomfortably as if they're back out on the circuit, in full view of the world, rather than in their own flat - deliberately flexes his chest and shoulders before complying, shaking out a white t-shirt with a vivid red flash across the front. Irene laughs and slaps him playfully on the arm.

'So what deal did you cut?' John asks, somewhat muffled as he pulls his own top off. 'Because I know you're damn good at what you do but not even you could arrange for us not to have to wear team kit at the Olympics.'

'You flatterer,' she says, looking back at him over her shoulder as she runs her hands over Sherlock's shoulders, smoothing the tight material into place. 'And astute. I did indeed cut a deal. Providing you're both either wearing or carrying your delightful …' the sneer in her voice is pronounced '… Team GB jackets at all times, what you wear underneath -'

'… Is your call,' Sherlock speaks over her as he shrugs out of her hold and strides across the room to John's side. Where he proceeds to rummage in John's box of clothes and then shove an outfit at him.

'Dress,' he commands in response to John's quirked eyebrow, 'I can't think with you all …' He waves his hands at John's body – now naked bar pants - and John can't help but grin in response. A grin that is wiped from his mouth when a voice from the back of the kitchen - a very familiar soft Irish lilt - cuts in with;

'You spoilsport, Shez, I was enjoying the view! It's amazing what delights you can hide under a cuddly jumper and a boy-next-door face.'

'Janine.' John only just manages to keep his tone civil as he whirls round to face her. 'What are you doing back there?'

'Using your facilities.'

The brief look of hurt that flashes over her face instantly makes him regret his tone. It isn't that John doesn't like her. On the contrary, he likes her a lot. She's bubbly, fun and sharp as they come, underneath her fluffy fan girl exterior. Plus she can drink him under the table if she puts her mind to it. He mostly doesn't even mind her lamentable habit of designing and wearing such violently pink and bright rainbow coloured Shezza's Sugars merchandise and ensuring nearly every other member of the fan club does the same.

What he minds is that she's here, in their home, at all. It certainly explains why Sherlock's suddenly brought Shezza out to play when he's never let the persona past the front door before. He's never needed to. This is supposed to be his and Sherlock's sanctuary, where Sherlock can be himself and neither of them have to worry about who's watching. Janine isn't here because it's her job, not like Irene, whose interest in Sherlock is purely professional. No, Janine is the founding member of Shezza's Sugars and whilst she's never behaved in a way that has made either of them uncomfortable, she hasn't dedicated all her spare time to following Shezza around because she merely has a passing fancy for him. She is a fan who became a friend, not the other way round, and whilst he knows Sherlock wouldn't have just let her wander unsupervised he also can't have seen exactly what she was doing all the time. She could have been in their bedroom. He hopes she wouldn't have gone snooping but is also aware such hopes are often for fools. He learnt the hard way, a long time ago, that privacy cannot be taken for granted and secrets have to be protected.

_And you've not forgiven her_, says the reasonable voice in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like his Mum, e_ven though what happened after Breckenridge was in no way her fault. She had absolutely nothing to do with the rumours of Sherlock dumping you for her from his hospital bed. That was all down to the ridiculous spin Kitty Riley put on you initially being refused access to Sherlock, thanks to that overly officious staff nurse in St Anthony's, and the photo of you and Sherlock arguing. She was merely a handy female Kitty could use as the plausible third person and you know it. _

'Sorry.' He offers her a lopsided smile as she walks towards him. 'I didn't mean to snap, you just startled me. You've never … visited us here before.'

'No worries.' Her face lightens and she answers the unasked question. 'Irene enlisted my help with the boxes.' Her walk turns into a hip swinging saunter as she passes them to perch on the far arm of Sherlock's chair. Face breaking into a very sunny smile she adds, 'Now carry on as if I'm not here, both of you. I'm not easily embarrassed.'

'Bloody good job I'm not, either,' John mutters at Sherlock.

'Chill, John,' Sherlock says, giving a one shouldered shrug and fixing John with an eloquent look that he interprets as saying something along the lines of

_You were in the army for eight years, being butt naked in front of people is not unusual for you. Besides, it's Janine, not some random stranger. Calm down._

Aware that Sherlock has a point, that it's her presence in the flat which is making him feel exposed rather than a lack of clothes, and that there's not much he can do about the situation now anyway, John just nods at Sherlock and returns to the matter in hand.

It barely takes twenty minutes for him to try on everything Irene's brought and to concede, in the privacy of his own head, that Irene's excellent taste when it comes to completely outfitting Sherlock extends to him as well.

'Thanks Irene,' he says as he shoves all the clothes, including his leathers, back into the box and picks it up. 'Do you need me for anything else?'

'Tea,' Sherlock says, from somewhere inside a hoodie.

The words _"I'm your husband, not your housekeeper"_ line themselves up in his head but thankfully Janine chooses that moment to giggle, his brain kicks in to remind him he can't just be himself right now and the words leave his tongue as a non-committal grunt. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't trust himself, instead clenching his jaw and starting towards the bedroom. By the time he kicks the door closed behind him and thumps the box to the floor his teeth are aching from being so tightly clamped together.

_Get a grip,_ he thinks, _you're being an idiot_. _Yes, you're having to bite your tongue in your own home but that's not a good reason to start questioning, again, if the reason Sherlock gave for wanting to hide the fact that you're married from everyone was the genuine one. _

He'd wanted to tell the world and his wife just what they'd done whilst in Lake Louise, because it felt - still feels, actually - like the best thing he's ever done. Hell, he was so happy at the time he'd even have given Kitty Riley an interview. But Sherlock had insisted they keep it quiet; adamant that only Mrs Hudson, Greg, Irene and Mycroft be aware.

He'd questioned Sherlock's motives at the time, uncertain why someone who claimed not to care what anyone else thought or said about him was suddenly so insistent the formalisation of their relationship should be kept out of the public domain. Still raw from the fallout of Breckenridge he'd not quite been able to accept, initially, that Sherlock simply didn't want to share any more of themselves with the world. He'd struggled to get his head around the idea that Sherlock had even considered that making their marriage, their official declaration of love for one another, public would open it to being sullied by journalists and internet gossip. He'd found his old insecurities resurfacing, found himself thinking that Sherlock must have had another reason for keeping it hidden; that Sherlock was ashamed of him, ashamed of their relationship. He'd even considered, for one bleak moment, that Sherlock only wanted to marry him for expediency, rather than because Sherlock genuinely loved him the way he loved Sherlock.

_For fucks sake, Watson, stop it_, he orders himself as he grabs a pair of combat trousers and a green workout vest from his drawer and pulls them on. Y_ou figured out you were being paranoid and unfair back then, thankfully before you said any of it to Sherlock, and nothing's changed. Sherlock never doubted your commitment when __**you**__ wanted to keep the relationship a secret when you first got together, did he? No. And you suggesting it didn't mean you didn't love him, did it? No, it fucking didn't. So stop being a hypocritical, insecure sap. This is not the Army. He is not Bill. If anything, you should be grateful he wanted that, because if he hadn't you'd be in a very different situation right now. Because you can't deny that the rest of the world having no idea what you've done is a good thing as far as Sochi goes. Can you imagine what the press coverage would be like if they knew you were married rather than just shacked up together? Yeah, not a pretty thought. So why are you being so damn idiotic now? _

Swallowing hard, not wanting to consider that question due to where it would lead, he heads back out to the kitchen to make the requested tea. He concentrates hard on the mundane ritual, determined not to give those memories - the ones he tries his hardest to keep buried right at the back of his brain - any more room in his consciousness than they've been demanding of late. Consequently he's not really listening to what's going on in the living room, only starting to pay attention when Irene says, in a slightly sharper tone than she had been using;

'Don't look at me like that Sherlock. _I_ haven't created the renewed interest in your relationship with John, nor have I done anything to encourage the press to turn the pair of you into gay rights icons.' Irene pauses and John finds himself holding his breath. 'But the fact is that's the situation we're facing and I'd be a fool not to capitalise on it. It's not like I'm asking you to snog John any time you see a camera pointing your way or start opining on LGBT rights, I just want you and Janine to co-ordinate your schedule with that of the Sugars. That way the majority of the press photos will have the pair of you surrounded by people wearing rainbows. Maximum impact, maximum exposure.'

John sees Sherlock open his mouth, expression dark and forehead furrowed, but Irene just keeps talking.

'I'm sorry Sherlock but the game has changed. Like it or not, you are not just your boarding any more. You're a star in your own right now and therefore _everything_ you do, including who you sleep with, is public property. I have every right to utilise that to your advantage.'

John doesn't hear what Sherlock starts to say in response, nor does he register sending a mug crashing to the kitchen floor as he whirls into the living room. He'll not forget the look of panic on both Janine and Irene's faces as he appears in front of them though.

'Get out.' He isn't shouting but his voice is like a whip crack in the otherwise silent flat. 'Get out now.'

Irene opens her mouth but John doesn't give her the chance to speak. 'Don't even think about trying to justify what you just said.' He takes a step forward, looming over Irene's seat on the sofa. 'Don't try and pretend any of what you just suggested was going to be for Sherlock's benefit and not yours. In fact don't say another word.'

His voice is rising, his chest heaving and he clenches his hands into fists, fighting to stay in control of himself.

'Sherlock and I have never hidden our relationship but that does_ not _make it public property, nor does it give you the right to use it as publicity fodder. I thought you were better than that. I thought you were intelligent enough to understand what playing around with our lives like this could cause. Because it is our lives, Irene. Our lives and our future, not just an image we project to sell your boards or t-shirts or any of the rest of the tat you make! So understand this, _Ms_ Adler. What Sherlock and I are to each other is no one's business but our own and I won't let you use our relationship, use our sexuality, to boost your brand! I won't let _anyone_ use us that way.'

Irene's face is a blank mask as John steps back enough to allow her to get up. She doesn't attempt to speak again, simply standing and motioning for Janine - who is looking between John and Sherlock's faces in horrified confusion - to follow her out of the flat.

John doesn't turn to face Sherlock until he's got his breathing back under control and the front door to 221B has slammed shut.

Sherlock isn't looking at him.

Sherlock is studiously not looking at him; eyes unfocused, chin resting on the tops of his knees which he's hugging to his chest, bare feet planted firmly on the seat of his chair. John swallows hard, opens his mouth and then immediately shuts it again. No point in talking just for the sake of filling the silence, not when he has no idea what the hell to say.

Instead he stomps back into the kitchen, clears up the shattered mug, and then takes Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge it but John doesn't think anything of his silence since he's still too angry with Irene to be able to say anything either.

oOo

Three hours later it is dark and the silence has become a third presence in the flat. It's so palpable that John catches himself wondering if should make it a cup of tea. Not that he wants it to remain, not at all, but he's not sure how to get rid of it and tea is a relatively reliable cure all. After all, it isn't every day you throw your husband's sponsor out of the house in a fit of temper and he doesn't quite know how to deal with it. Still, they can't pretend it didn't happen. He's either got to start a conversation or go and turn the punch bag to mush. He'd prefer the punch bag but he can't just let Sherlock sit there and stew all night.

It isn't either of their faults Irene lost sight of things thanks to Charly's manoeuvring. Because John is absolutely certain it's the launch of CAM Wear - the first real threat to KYWL's dominance in the market since Charly bailed on her - that's got her acting like a crazed publicist rather than a level headed brand manager and company director.

'Sherlock …' he starts, but doesn't get any further because Sherlock finally looks at him and his gaze is one of burning fury.

'I thought you were different,' Sherlock almost snarls, hugging his knees tighter to his chest.

'I'm sorry _what_?' John's too amazed to pussy foot around. 'Different from who?'

'Whom, John. Different from whom. And the answer is different from Mycroft and Mummy and Victor and all the other people who thought they could speak for me throughout my life.'

'Speak for you? When did I speak for you?'

'Don't be idiotic. When you pulled rank and told Irene what was _allowed._' Sherlock's nostrils flare and then he says, in a piss poor parody of John's voice, '"I won't let you use our relationship, use our sexuality, to boost your brand! I won't let _anyone_ use us that way." What gave you the right to make that decision without asking me?'

John can't make his mouth work for a second he's so furious. All this time he's been sitting there thinking they're on the same page and in reality Sherlock is just throwing his toys out of the pram because of a perceived dent to his pride.

'You've got no fucking idea have you? No bloody clue why I reacted like I did, why all this shit with Sochi and anti-gay laws and homophobia bothers me, have you? No, of course you haven't because you've never bothered to find out. Never wanted to, let alone thought to ask me why I was upset. And all because it didn't fit with your fucking _precious_ views of the world formed back when your every whim was being pandered to by Mrs Hudson and then when you were off nancying about at Harrow, sniggering at 'circle jerks' and pretending you were just another one of the lads. You've never had to put up with more than a bit of name calling and typical teenage bullying. You have no idea what real, gritty, kick-you-till-you-pass-out homophobia is like.'

'Well then, perhaps you might care to enlighten me.' Sherlock's voice is so cold and hard it could sink the Titanic.

'I joined the Army in 2000, Sherlock. You're supposed to be intelligent. Do I need to paint you a picture?'

'They'd made it legal then. I know they had. They couldn't sack you for admitting you were homosexual.'

'Oh fucking brilliant. So I could tell people I was gay without risking my job. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Just because it was legal for me say who I loved didn't stop there being bigots in the ranks, did it? Certainly didn't stop them taking me round the back of the barracks and kicking the shit out of me just because they suspected, did it?'

'That never happened. You never said anything like that had happened.'

Sherlock's tone is bordering on accusative but John can hear the fear underlying it. Still he ploughs on, though a small part of his brain is telling him this isn't going to help unless he keeps it at least vaguely civil. He can't though, too incensed by Sherlock's apparent unwillingness to listen to reality.

'You don't want it to have happened, Sherlock. There's a difference. And to be fair, they didn't manage much. Not the first time. I was lucky I had good mates in 144 Squadron, so the arseholes who thought they'd take their drunken rage out on a jumped up little cock-sucking-fudge-packer ended up worse off than me. No one said anything after. My mates, I mean. They didn't ask if the bastards had been right and I didn't tell. My secret stayed a secret for a long time after that. Until the real shit-kicking happened at the end of my second tour of Afghanistan.' He yanks his vest top up to expose the faded, but still visible, jagged silver white scars that littered his torso. 'Yeah, the Taliban weren't the only ones to leave their mark on me.'

Sherlock has gone pale and his mouth is hanging half open. He waves one hand, a mute gesture of defeat, but John barely notices, never mind reacts, as he drags his top back down. His tongue continues on autopilot as the memories drown out all rational thought.

'Didn't figure it out? Well, why the hell would you? I don't ever talk about it and it isn't like you've made a study of scarring from different type of wounds. How could you have any idea?'

'Shrapnel. You said-' Sherlock's looking indignant again, brow creasing the same way it does when he's trying to figure out why a trick isn't working and his inability to figure it out is infuriating him. Then his eyes widen and he snaps, 'You lied to me.'

'Fuck, Sherlock, you do not get to be the one to take the moral high ground here! I didn't lie, except by omission.' He lifts the cotton again and runs his fingers over various stripes of raised flesh across belly and hips. 'This, this and this … they _were_ thanks to various bits of shrapnel.' His fingers move up to trace a thinner, finer line over his ribs and a welt on the left side of his chest, 'I just didn't say they these weren't also from that blast.'

'You kept it from me.'

'Not because I wanted too!'

The words actually rip at John's throat, he shouts them so loudly.

'I hid this, hid what happened because it fucking hurts every time I think about it. Every time I see this mess reflected in a mirror. Still. After all these years. The words more than the memory of the blows. They were men I'd trusted with my life, Sherlock! Men I'd patched up, patrolled with, laughed with. Men who'd had my back just as I'd had theirs. Brothers in arms.

'And they were looking at me as if I was something disgusting, something infectious, something vile …. They said I'd corrupted Bill, turned his head. That no member of the Parachute regiment would willingly fuck a dirty faggot, least of all a shitty little tart like me, without being brainwashed. Said I needed to learn what happened to those who fucked over a true Para - never mind that I was one, that I'd earned my wings just like them - said I needed to learn my place.'

Sherlock stands, moves towards John but John, caught in the memories, takes two quick steps back.

Sherlock freezes.

'God knows what would have happened if they'd found out whilst we were still in Kajaki but as it was, they caught us the night we got back to Bastion at the end of the tour. I didn't think anyone was looking and I kissed him. I've never regretted anything more in my life. He spent the two weeks "decompression" in Cyprus shagging every girl who so much as looked at him and thanking his mates for saving him. I spent it in a room on my own, healing, waiting for the bruises to fade and trying to pretend it didn't hurt to breathe.'

'But …'

John looks at Sherlock, watches him start to frame words but not speak, still desperately struggling to remould what John's just said and make the world fit what he wants it to be rather than accept reality for what it is.

'Oh give it up, Sherlock,' he spits. 'This isn't the world of public schools and a bit of teenage name calling. This is the real world where shit happens and fists fly because Joe Bloggs from the arse end of nowhere grew up being told that being gay was wrong and thinks beating up a faggot makes you more of a man. Lucky for you, you've never had to deal with any of the crap, never had to see it. And I'm glad you haven't, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But I won't stand around and let anyone put us in a position where it could happen again. So excuse me if I spoke out of turn, or hurt your feelings because I "pulled rank" … but to me this is more important. Our safely is more important, _you_ are more important, than me hurting your pride. And if you can't see that then … then … you aren't the man I thought I married.'

They stare at each other, for a moment that stretches into something longer, then Sherlock opens his mouth. Only John doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to know. He can still see Bill, at the back of the gang, just … there. Not saying anything, not joining in, but not doing anything to stop it. Then it stops just being a memory and suddenly it's Bill looking at him with Sherlock's eyes.

He's out the door and running down the stairs before Sherlock can either speak or move.


End file.
